Spare the Rod
by jink
Summary: Sherlock has a small intricacy placed in his hands. He promptly seeks guidance. A consulting detective, a doctor, an inspector plus spawn.


**Title:** Spare the Rod**  
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**Characters:** Sherlock/John/Lestrade/Mrs. Hudson/Sarah/The Child

**Length:** 6,190

**Genre:** Drama

**Warnings:** None

**Rating:** G

**Summary:** _Sherlock encounters THE child. Another Sherlock and a baby scenario,that can only end it tears.  
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**SPARE THE ROD**

**"Sunt pueri pueri, puerilia tractant." (Children are children, (therefore) children do childish things) - Latin phrase**

Doorbells meant nothing to Sherlock. Doorbells, pagers, and other frivolous human signals were all equivalent beacons of contact with other people and Sherlock was consistent about all-inconvenient, meaningless noise that went away eventually. Collections, misguided take-away sherpas, and the errant cult recruiters were usually clever enough to get the point-no one was home.

Sherlock was away. Miles away. Lost in the intricate network of valleys and streams inside a human marrow cell. Absorbed completely in his Stradvarius not to surface until sundown. Picking and meandering through the minute details of a photograph in the same way rangers navigate the tangle of forests. He was perfectly content to remain uncharted and isolated from the world-

Well, he would be if the damned bell would stop ringing.

He let it go on for hours, this game. At intervals it would pause only to resume in a bout of clamoring urgency that Sherlock's ebbing patience finally gave way.

Snarling, he dashed down stairs, ready to hurl something more permanently damaging than an unkind word when he realized there was no target standing on the front doorstep. His gaze shot down.

Just a cardboard box stuffed with newspaper sitting on the welcome mat. Snow had fallen last night. The grayish stiff corners of the box were soaking up moisture. It was cold. There was nothing else to observe.

Sherlock slammed the door shut again.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He roared. "Mrs. Hudson! A moment please?"

Mrs. Hudson took her time shuffling from what was obviously her late afternoon soother by the telly to where Sherlock stood rigid in the foyer.

"This had better be good, dear. Dr. Phil was about to help me self-analyze my-!"

"Expecting any deliveries today?" Sherlock cut her off bluntly.

Mrs. Hudson blinked and frowned, gnawing at her Majestic Plum lacquered mouth. "No, dear. My medication doesn't arrive until next Tuesday and Christmas isn't for another week or so."

"Would you explain to me, then, why there is an unclaimed box of news scrap on our doorstep?"

Mrs. Hudson peered over Sherlock's shoulder at the shabby cardboard box.

"Not one of your cases, then?"

"No." Sherlock said dangerously. "Not. one. of my. cases."

He bent down very slowly to study it, to take in every mark, every iota of information that could be gleaned from it. Nothing of consequence. Just a pile of shredded newspaper clippings, glossy magazine pages a few days old, ripped seemingly at random yet stuffed with some care around the edges, obviously concealing something.

Sherlock frowned, waving his bare fingers lightly over the clippings.

Warmth. Something alive then.

His fingertips barely touched the edge of one page when a sharp bleat emitted from the layers of crumpled TIMES and SUN editorials.

Baker Street was Central London. His block was crowded each day with passer-bys, visitors to the snack shop, unfortunate bumbling tourists and general urban life. But for some surreal reason the streets were empty. It was 10:30 in the morning. All of London was at work or retired. All of London, that is, with the exception of himself, his landlady and the tiny creature sleeping soundly in the box at his feet.

As he ripped the top layer of shredded newspaper away, Mrs. Hudson let out a shriek which she quickly clamped down with her hands.

"Oh good Lord! Sherlock, don't just stand there!"

Sherlock impassively shoved the basket across the threshold with his foot. The baby, interestingly enough, remained unconscious.

"Not like that, you barbarian!" Mrs. Hudson hissed. "You're hopeless!"

He marveled at how strong his aging landlady suddenly became as she gingerly picked up the box, bad hip and all. The burden took up an entire armful but she managed to settle it on the staircase to get a proper coo at the infant.

"Oh the poor pickle. Look here Sherlock, it's got a note."

Sherlock swiftly raised his hand, preventing Mrs. Hudson herself from touching the card pinned conveniently to the top of the baby's blue blanket. He donned his gloves and with great care unpinned the message.

DEER HOMES-

HAF TO LYE LOW. IN TRUBBLE. WILL KUM BAK. PLZ LUK AFFER BEBE TIL I KUM?

-B.

Peeling back the cotton blanket, he inspected its contents. The infant was senselessly sucking on a blue pacifier, no doubt the only flimsy barrier between it and hysterical internal rage. Three months old, or just shy of. Sherlock studied the child closely, looking for evidence of a name tag or some other identification but there was none.

"What kind of desperate person would leave a baby out on a doorstep?" Mrs. Hudson was wringing her hands as opposed to being any help at all.

"The correct query, Mrs. Hudson, is what kind of person would leave its young on MY doorstep?"

Mrs. Hudson already had her back to him, retreating into her apartment.

"Well, I'll phone the authorities. You bring it upstairs."

Sherlock's shoulders shook automatically in false mirth.

"You can't be serious."

"I can, love. I've a good mind to write you up for all your dealings with odd chaps showing up every hour of the night! This is very much your own problem."

The floor-shuddering slam of her apartment door rattled the sleeping creature in its box. As the first choked whimpers escalated into piercing wails, Sherlock grit his teeth in realization that this entire affair was, at its barest minimum, a catastrophe.

His ears were ringing by the time he managed to haul the entire box of scraps and struggling infant up the stairs and into his flat. Lunging for his sofa, he set the box down as steadily as possible despite the caterwauling. When he'd got his breath back, he bent down and reached into the box. The infant, now wide awake and furious, kicked and waved its tiny fists in the air as he picked it up. Ignoring it was a Herculean task but Sherlock was able to hold it out at arms length to scrutinize it some more.

The child was Caucasian and male. Its skin was bright red from crying and its lungs were healthy enough. It was clothed in a pale green one-piece with yellow duck pattern. The material was cheap, likely bought at a Bargain Shop or donated by a church fund. Without heed for its protests, he turned it casually over to be met with a foul odor. It had soiled itself somehow but with no clue how to address the issue, he pressed on.

At least, he tried to go about making some conclusions but he could hardly gather his thoughts.

"Shut up." He told it. "I can't think!"

Peeling back the child's clothes revealed no new information. He half hoped for a tag with a name on it or some other clue. Having inspected the infant and its box as much as he was able through the din of its wrath, his thoughts turned next to action. He placed the unhappy thing in its blanket to kick some more while he fumbled for his mobile. With one long-fingered hand on the child's belly to keep it from strangling itself, he began to tap out an earnest text.

**John. In trouble. Come quickly. Bring Sarah.**

If demanding Sarah's presence were not outlandish enough behavior to set off red flags with John, nothing would. Now the only unaddressed issue was the noise. Sherlock tried plugging it back up with the pacifier but the child spat it out and howled. He stood up and paced, hoping it would eventually tire himself out. No such luck.

It obviously wanted something. Maybe, Sherlock reasoned with dread, several mysterious somethings. Perhaps, nourishment?

But what did babies live on?

Panicked, he called Mrs. Hudson who barked at him: "Milk!"

Milk. He and John constantly had milk in the fridge though it never lasted more than a week. The majority of it went into John. Porridge in the mornings. Tea in the evenings. Sherlock flew into the kitchen and, with relief, found half a bottle of milk in the back. Snatching it and a roll of paper towels, he clomped back into the living room.

"Here!" Half by guess and half by instinct, he soaked up a splash of milk into an unoccupied pipette and held it to the child's mouth.

At first it seemed to work. The child clamped down on the tip while he held his breath, its tiny pink mouth making curious but encouraging sounds. However, it took only a few seconds for the thing to figure out it wasn't hungry after all. Coughing and spluttering, it turned its head away and resumed shrieking.

"Well, it's not my fault you find it unpalatable!" Sherlock informed it. The ear-splitting yowls were, by now, painful. Echoing against his skull, making his head pound and his eyes throb. He dragged a shaking hand through his hair.

"WILL YOU FOR GOD'S SAKE BE QUIET!" When he roared, the infant simply roared back. Groaning, he held his head in his hands and surrendered to his desolation. Sherlock knew what this entire show was. It was a tantrum. Sherlock himself was a capital one for throwing tantrums though he had far more refined modes of expression. A heightened state of emotion wherein no word, action, or logic could penetrate.

He needed to concentrate and to do that his body needed to relax.

Taking a few deep breaths, he sought out his one legal comfort in dismal times. In two large strides, he was beside the case propped up in the corner of the living room. Indignantly unlocking the clamps, he lifted the Stradvarius from its velvet-lined cushioning and set it to rest under his chin.

"What say you?" He sneered, eyes narrowed at the screeching hellion. "A little Fugue in D minor?"

Splaying the bow across the strings, he decided to go Russian. Something traditional and tragic to suit his mood. Finishing that, an Irish jig to give the tot some competition. Eyes closed, he played on savagely, until the world around him merged into background noise. Shifting his focus in the vibrations of the strings, the melodies his fingers wove as they danced up and down the scales, he became gradually calm.

When he finally paused to rest, breathing heavily, it took him a moment to realize that the demon had fallen back into its coma. He wasn't sure how and he certainly hadn't planned it but he had triumphed. Victorious if exhausted, he draped himself across John's armchair, drinking in the silence like cool water.

Equally mysterious was the flutter, verging on laughter, fluttering in his chest.

When the doorbell rang, he did not ignore it. Neither did his charge, awakened and beginning to keen. Urgently, he raced for the door and flung it open.

He did not expect to see Lestrade.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock spat.

"Your landlady phoned. Said it was urgent." There was sandpaper in the lilt of Lestrade's voice and an unmistakable fade of nicotine. He'd not been at home last night but had every intention.

"Urgent. No. Not at all. Everything's fine. Good day!" Sherlock made to slam the door in his face but the detective was too quick, blocking it with his foot and forcing his way past.

"That...eh, your's?" Lestrade was already standing over the sofa with arms crossed, looking down at what was about to become a shared problem.

"Yes, I got it on ebay." Sherlock kept his tone as clipped as Lestrade was accustomed to hearing.

"Christ, Sherlock! Be serious!"

In reply, Sherlock reached into the box. His handling of the infant came across as more awkward than careful. The creature was so small that his large hands completely encased its frame. The ceaseless racket however, told him that he was doing something wrong. The considerable length of his arms from his body was enough for the baby to kick and scream as much as it wanted.

"I have never been more serious." He said, pointing the child at Lestrade as though it were a deadly weapon. To his bafflement, Lestrade appeared absolutely unruffled. In fact, he even had the cheek to bite his lip to hold back a chuckle. Sherlock grit his teeth and tried to assume a more authoritative stance.

"Shut it up and be useful." He cursed under his breath when the baby started leaking hideous wet dribble over his fingers.

Lestrade's reaction was infuriatingly calm.

"Alright. How?"

Sherlock swallowed on what would have been the first time in his life Lestrade would have the opportunity to hear him stutter.

"It needs...things. I don't know what things but it needs an endless supply of them!"

"And have you in your staggering intellect figured out what those are exactly?"

"Don't be condescending. If you're not going to-"

"Oh, give 'im here." Lestrade reached out, eyes rolled. With visible relief, Sherlock surrendered the wailing child.

"It's not a bomb, Sherlock." As though it were everyday occurrence, Lestrade held the infant close to his chest and mysteriously, began swaying to and fro as though his balance were suddenly off. The baby, meanwhile, continued its harangue against all things.

"Just silence it for the love of Hell! It's obviously defective! It won't listen to reason! " Sherlock fought to keep his shattered nerves out of his voice.

"Babies rarely can."

"You seem to be enjoying some success, Inspector." Sherlock growled as the infant finally settled against the Inspector's shoulder. Not without some fascination, Sherlock marveled at how Lestrade didn't even seem to notice the alarming dark stain from the child's constantly dribbling mouth growing on his work shirt.

"Why does it DO that?"

"Do what?"

"Leak!"

Lestrade glanced briefly down at the wet spot as though it were of no importance.

"He's hungry."

"How do you know so much about him? You've only just met!"

Lestrade cracked a wearied smile. "I deal with criminals and the bloody press for a living. At least this little tyke doesn't badmouth my mum before pissing on me. Child's play, if you'll forgive the pun."

"I'd forgive your record first." Sherlock sniffed.

"You can always have 'im back?" Sherlock recoiled as Lestrade readied himself to hand the squalling nymphet over, producing similar traumatic responses from either party.

"Shh! Shh! Sorry, mate. Just a joke." Lestrade soothed the baby again. Sherlock wanted to slam his fist into the disturbing expression on Lestrade's face. Instead, he chose to address the main problem.

"So, what does it need?"

"Well for starters-" Lestrade bent down to get a whiff. "He needs a nappy change."

"Brilliant. I thought it had gone off. What's a nappy?"

"What's a-Hell, nevermind. Which way to the Boy's room?" He asked, jouncing the fretful tyke against his shoulder.

"Up the stairs. What do you intend to do?"

"Hose it down." Lestrade said as though Sherlock were the bleeding moron.

The Inspector reappeared twenty minutes later, sleeves rolled. A still grotty but markedly cleaner, unclothed baby wrapped in a towel lay on his shoulder.

"That's _my_ towel." Sherlock noted.

"Couldn't find anything to use as a nappy." Lestrade explained, unsuccessfully dodging one of the baby's exploring hands at his mouth. "You'll have to make a run to the shops."

Sherlock grimaced. "Can't. Too busy. Million things lined up."

Lestrade shrugged. "Alright. Just don't complain to me when it kacks all over the place."

Sherlock lifted an eloquent eyebrow. "It hasn't consumed much. Whose to say it will?"

"Got five of these at home." Lestrade grinned, rubbing small circles against the infant's back. "Trust me, he will."

Sherlock widened his eyes in horror. "Five." He repeated softly.

Lestrade ignored him and had taken to wandering up and down the limited area of living room. Walking to the window, then to the door, reverse. The entire time, the child behaved in an appeased manner, even subdued. Sherlock was insulted by the enigmatic nature of it all.

"He come with a name? Any ID?" Lestrade asked.

"No. It arrived untagged."

Lestrade considered the tiny drooler. "How's about Charley?"

"How about Sod Off?" Sherlock sniffed. "Really, a most ungrateful and impossible creature. I did everything for it! I even offered it milk"

Lestrade raised eyebrows doubtfully. "You have milk? What'd you use as a bottle, then?"

"A .6 gauge glass pipette of course!"

"Bloody hell, did you even rinse the thing out first?"

"Of course I did!" He heard his volume rise, setting the baby off in a threatening bout of whimpers. Lestrade shifted it against his chest and patted it earnestly but it soon began to wail anew.

"See mate, with babies you have to be the one in charge and you were in no way on top of this matter.

"Don't be absurd. I was in every way on top." Sherlock shouted.

"Lower your voice!" Lestrade hissed, miraculously keeping his own irritated tone in check. "You can't one up a baby, Sherlock."

"I gave it everything it required! I talked to it, I-I put it on a clean surface so it could calm itself, I played it a happy little yarn!"

Sherlock felt nearly affronted by Lestrade's shudder. "Ugh, you did?"

"Well, maybe not so happy! But it refused to cease caterwauling even after the milk!"

Lestrade frowned. "Lemme see." He made his way over to the kitchen table and picked up the forgotten bottle. "Aw hell, Sherlock this milk's gone off!"

"What?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. In his desperation for even a few possible seconds of peace, he'd neglected to check the expiration date.

"How did YOU not notice?"

"It's not going to expire along with it, is it?"

"Nah, but the poor chap is gonna make it his business taking it out on you all night."

The baby continued to howl against Lestrade's shoulder as the large man rubbed slow circles into its back. Through his distaste, Sherlock looked on with no small amount of curiosity.

"What is it about your SCENT that makes you so amenable to infants?"

Lestrade's huff of laughter was tired. The screams and shrieks of the demon nestled in the crook of his neck did not seem to trouble him in the least.

"Used to it, I guess." He said as the baby reluctantly began to settle. "Atta boy. Shush."

"I should have known you were a family man." Sherlock grumbled, staring at the infant now slurping noisily on its fingers.

"S'not been outlawed yet." Lestrade sighed. "But if we ever locate the sod who left this sorry chap with you, I'll charge her personally for neglect. Right, then. Seems our boy is finally knackered and ready for a nap. You don't have any place for him to sleep, do you?"

Sherlock looked up, exhausted, as though this were yet another mountain of impossibility being placed on his shoulders.

"Can't he just sleep in the wrapping he came in?"

"I'm not here to give you a bleeding tutorial."

"Good. I won't hear it."

"Look Sherlock, I'd hand him over to the nearest CPS agency if I knew he didn't already belong to one of your..."

"...associates." Sherlock supplied.

"Right, whatever. When your associate comes to collect 'im, just have her contact me. You have my card."

"Gladly."

"Well, we're done then. Here you are." As carefully as possible, Lestrade plucked the drowsy infant from his shoulder and offered him to Sherlock. Sherlock's entire body immediately tightened.

"What do I...do?"

"Hold him. Closely. Not like a rubbish bin. Let him get used to you, feel your breathing. Don't tense up, he needs to know that he's secured."

"That makes two of us!" Sherlock whined. Beyond mere trepidation, Sherlock knew his rapid heartbeat was the thought of being left alone with this unpredictable life form. He made no move and focused on breathing instead.

"Babies are delicate." Lestrade tried again. "They like to be held. They can't do things for themselves, they're completely helpless."

"Like a fungus."

Lestrade paused then decided to go with it.

"Yes, Sherlock. Like a fungus. Now here!"

"I prefer fungus." Sherlock muttered, reaccepting the baby and balancing it with open distaste against his bony shoulder. "Fungus don't get scared."

"If you can't keep one alive and well for even a few hours, I'll tell the entire department all about it." Lestrade promised.

"John. John will know what to do." Sherlock tried very hard to stay still and ignore the unsettling drool spot growing on his jacket.

"Yeah, well at least that bloke has common decency enough to know women who might."

At that moment the front door slammed. John stood frozen in the door frame, keys still dangling from his hand. The baby exploded into a fit of fresh howls.

"Uh...congratulations?"

Lestrade lost his nerve then, releasing the chuckles he'd been holding in probably since his arrival.

"Not funny." Sherlock hoped his simmering rage was palpable.

"Well, whose is it?"

"His." Was the simultaneous response.

"Cute little bugger, ain't he?" John hung up his jacket and winced when the volume suddenly peaked. Sherlock shot him a death glare.

"Look, my arm is about to fall asleep so if you value your sanity, you'll lay out a clean blanket or something on the sofa and let me sod off."

Lestrade did him the favor of taking the baby back and re-regulating it while John hurried to smooth out the blue blanket on the sofa. Carefully, Lestrade deposited the now quiet infant on his back.

"Right gents, I'm off." Lestrade said with a quick nod to John. "Good night to you and good luck."

Sherlock turned intensely on John as soon as the door closed.

"Quickly, John! We've got to make preparations!"

John had, by now, surmised the situation after examining the box and its note. The baby had fallen asleep, sucking on the pacifier Sherlock had relocated for it.

"So mum just left him? No bottle, nappies or anything?"

"Yes. Homeless women are statistically more likely to spend money on temporary housing or protection before...whatever they're called."

"Nappies?"

"Precisely. Therefore it would be in our best interest for you to dash to the chemist and obtain some along with whatever else this minion might require!" Sherlock was busy scribbling down a series of things on a notepad. Breathlessly, he tore off the sheet and thrust it at John.

"Er, alright?" John squinted down at the piece of paper suddenly in his hand. "Nappies, milk, baby bottle, er-codeine?"

"It's for me! Take my card and go! Now before it explodes again!"

John looked as though he were trying very hard not to laugh as he took up his hat and scarf once more. He had one foot out the door when he poked his head back in, an irritating grin on his face.

"If he wakes up, Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Sing 'im a lullaby."

Sherlock knew John would hear the relentless screaming before he even made it up the stairs. It didn't matter if the little hellion paused for breath. That sparse interval of silence was already inhabited by the psychosomatic echo that had taken up residence in his brain. John would open the door to find the child very much awake and vocal on its blanket.

"Sherlock?"

He heard his name called but could not move. Heard the sound of bags being set down on the floor. Heard the meandering footfalls. Felt when John's foot caught on his leg and nearly toppled over his body, hunched pathetically next to the table.

"Oh come on!" John's tone was dangerously close to mockery. "Really, Sherlock?"

Sherlock could not reply. He was bent over, head low, breathing slowly and methodically into a paper bag.

"You two getting on, then?"

"Famously." Sherlock muttered. The tingling in his fingers and toes had reduced and his throat was only now opening up again. He filled his chest with air experimentally and was relieved to find that he could. John vanished, reappearing with the vociferous baby against his shoulder, somehow addressing it and the bag of groceries at the same time.

"I've broken it somehow, John."

John was mysteriously unalarmed by this.

"Other way around, more like." John chuckled, stacking canisters of formula one by one on the counter. "He's far from broken. Just hungry and wet. Typical for lads his age." He spoke to the infant now sobbing into his neck. "Fix that in a tiff, won't we?"

"I tried, John. Honestly."

"You couldn't even pick him up!"

"I **did** that already!" Sherlock growled. Why were John and Lestrade so quick to discredit his efforts?

"If you hold him like a piece of rotting cheese, he'll be frightened." John reasoned with the same infernal calmness. "You need to give him something to latch onto."

"You mean gnaw on. Little termite nibbled my collar shapeless."

"You'll live. Now you up for warming a bit of milk?" John indicated the plastic bottle from the chemist's.

Milk. Measurements. Kitchen. These were things Sherlock felt he could manage. He nearly wept with relief.

When Sherlock came back with the bottle of warmed formula in his hands, John was soldiering on, the whimpering child tucked away in one arm, his phone in the other.

"I've texted Sarah. She'll be along soon." He accepted the bottle from Sherlock's dumb hands and settled down into his armchair.

"There, there. Real stuff this time. You'll have to trust me." John assured the baby. Sherlock felt his lip curl in derision when John tested a splash of milk against his wrist to make sure he hadn't boiled it. He was Sherlock Holmes and he _knew _how to boil milk at the very least! Resting the tiny head against the crook of his elbow, John waited until the baby figured out that the substance offered in the rubber nipple would not kill it.

"Don't be smug." Sherlock sniffed when the child gradually began to suck.

"I wasn't!" John did not look up from his task. "Ok, maybe I was."

"This has been a hellish ordeal!"

"That's what he told me." John murmured, stifling a yawn.

"I suppose you're also the expert?" Sherlock's pointed acidity only made John smile.

"Delivered a few meself. Refugee camps. Mums too young or sick to nurse proper. I was up all hours with several at a time, screaming like banshees!" Why John felt the need to smile at such an unpleasant memory was completely beyond Sherlock's reckoning. When the ravenous sprout had slurped its fill, John stood up with a groan and arranged the child over his shoulder, delivering a bout of rapid but gentle strokes to its back.

"Now what are you doing?"

"What does it look like? Burping him."

Sherlock was aghast.

"It's too stupid to even pass gas?"

"No, too little. Is it really impossible for you to believe that once upon a time, someone held you over their shoulder and did this for you?"

Sherlock crossed his arms and sulked.

"Not someone. Mycroft. I only thank god I was never cognizant for it."

"At one time, Sherlock, you were dependent on others for survival."

"Yes, well, not for very long." Sherlock assured him. At length, the baby let out a tiny puff of air and hiccuped.

"Hand me a nappy?" John began laying the baby out on the towel but Sherlock was now in the throes of a passionate strop and would not be moved to assist. John let out his breath slowly.

"Fine. Watch him while I fetch one."

The moment John left the room, the waterworks began. Sherlock stood rigid and helpless.

"Pick him up!" John called from the kitchen.

Sherlock stared down disdainfully at the naked, sniveling, red-faced thing on the towel. This was a challenge, nothing more. He briefly tried visualizing himself in infancy. Few pictures survived and he had not laid eyes on the remaining ones for years. Gingerly, he lifted the baby up and off the blanket, holding it aloft in front of him. Feeling utterly ridiculous, he swallowed and tried to get his breathing under control. Conquering his distaste, he drew the small thing closer to his chest.

The wails miraculously stopped.

Sherlock dared not even draw air.

His eyes snapped shut at the tiny burst of sudden warmth dampened the front of his dress shirt. The distinctive tang of regurgitated milk filled his nostrils.

A challenge? No. This was, quite clearly, an ambush.

He couldn't be sure but he thought he heard a tiniest whisper of a giggle.

Perhaps, he surmised with a shudder, infants were not as stupid as their ruse.

John had the presence of mind not to ridicule him to his face when he returned.

"It's his way of getting closer to you." John assured. "Think of it as a badge of honor."

"Remember that when I decide to vomit all over _your_ clothes." Sherlock frantically unbuttoned his soiled shirt, feeling more and more nauseous every second it was on him. While he choked down his gag reflex, John was determinedly crouched over the mini saboteur, cleaning its soiled person and placing a nappy between it and their upholstery.

Once rinsed and satiated, the baby succumbed to an agreeable state of limpness.

Now dressed in a common T-shirt and dressing gown, Sherlock loomed over John as he and the baby watched the evening news. John wouldn't last long, his eyes already drooping, his head falling now and again to his chest. Bored, Sherlock waved his fingers over the baby's face. The baby, distracted, grabbed his fingers and pulled them with appalling strength to its tiny mouth and began gumming with ferocity. Sherlock grimaced but the baby continued to claim his fingers, squeezing and pulling at them.

John was done in, head bowed against his chest and breathing in a full on snore. As skillfully as possible, Sherlock wrenched his digits back from the infant's clutches and wrapped his hands around its small body. While John had been cooing at it, he'd found it a new sterile cardboard box to sleep in. Dumping its now laundered blanket inside, he lifted the child from John's limp grasp and deposited it into the box on its back as he'd seen Lestrade do.

He waited.

He waited some more.

The baby stared up at him and he down at it.

Was this a gauntlet being dropped? What new and dreadful assault was there now brewing in that soft barely-formed brain? What fiendish plot would soon have him crawling about the flat performing base humiliation in exchange for a minute's silence?

The small intricacy yawned, its large eyes still locked on Sherlock.

For the first time in his life, it occurred to him. What would John do?

_Lullaby. _Sing it a lullaby. What was a lullaby? Lull; derived from Hebrew. To calm, quiet or soothe. Why, exactly, did infants_ want _that? What alchemy was there in the human voice pitched to varied ridiculous crescendos entwining trite lyrics? Sherlock blinked and found he could not conjure up a single lullaby. Echoes of musical memory from those hazy years were so faded as to be unintelligible. Likely they had not even been English. He glanced longingly at his violin but paused, fist clenched. John would wake up as inconsolable as the infant if he was disturbed.

Another tact struck a chord. He whipped out his Iphone and typed in the keyword "lullaby". Results instantly appeared on YouTube. To his relief, a simpering, cartoonish melody played back, the kind of song that should appease a basic life form such as this. Something about stars twinkling and other rubbish. Experimentally, he waved the phone over the crib to gauge reaction.

The baby rewarded his efforts with a squeal and an irritated screech. Sherlock cursed, hastily clicking off the phone.

So much for lullabies. Sherlock fumed. It had actually had the nerve to be insulted by his ingenuity! The child screwed up its face, rubbing its eyes and reaching chubby arms upwards.

With a heavy sigh, he picked the child up before it began bawling too loudly and leaned back on the sofa, balancing it against his chest so that it would not roll off. It seemed the little critic had specific guidelines for what would lull it. He had a vague sense of what effect his voice had on simpler creatures like Molly. Would it be too daring to hope for success? Since lullabies were disgusting and not at all in his area, he decided it best to simply recite what he knew.

_"Antimony, arsenic, aluminum, selenium..."_

He never heard the quick jingle of keys or the soft feminine chatter of his landlady with another. He never heard the door open nor Mrs. Hudson usher Sarah quietly inside the flat, finger to her smiling lips. He was spared the humiliation of John's lady friend and her prim snort as she took in the scene before her. John in full snore, mouth open with his head thrown back against the chair. The telly left running in the background an all-night infomercial.

He did not see from his slumped position on the sofa, Sarah's expression when she discovered the unconscious tot blissfully gumming one of Sherlock's captured fingertips. Sherlock breathed softly beneath the infant, a passed-out human body pillow.

He would not get to witness Sarah whipping out her camera phone with a smirk.

Best to let sleeping infants lie.

He never felt the weight of the coverlet placed over his shoulders nor did he catch the small beep of Sarah's phone as she held it to her ear.

"Well done, gents. I'll just get started on the paperwork, then."


End file.
